MSU v Georgia

It's a Dawg Fight!

George Clinton and the Parliamentary Funkadelic - Atomic Dog

The blog is going to take a detour this week... we won't be doing all the regular features, so that we can instead bring you this lovely little story about friends, football and alcohol...

Mr. Mitch's Wild Ride -

So this week's blog will be a little different, for reasons you're about to find out.  I did not really have an opportunity to watch the game, although I had a ticket and was actually in the stands for the first half, so I can only comment on the info I've received about the game secondhand and what I've read in the post-game aftermath.

Please note, all names have been changed to protect the guilty.  Yes, guilty.

So my friend, we'll call him Mitch, he is an MSU alumnus and football fan.  He bought a set of season tickets with me so he could attend any of our homegames provided he could get the time off from work.  His first game to attend this season was the LA Tech game this past weekend.

We start the weekend off by going downtown and having a great time eating and drinking with friends, and watching one of our old friends from college play an accoustic set.  The next morning we rise and shine and start prepping for gameday.  We get the cooler, stock it full of beer and mixers, and head off to campus.  After we make 'the drop' at the tailgate we go and park my car in the Cotton District at Stagger Inn (decent little sports bar if you're ever in the area).  We go inside, have a great lunch and a couple of beers while watching the first half of the Georgia/Ole Miss game.

After a while I noticed a sign on the wall for Jim Beam - Devil's Cut.  I'm not going to go into the whole process, but basically when making bourbon there is an Angel's Share and a Devil's Cut, which are both considered to be lost in the process of making the bourbon.  Apparently Jim Beam figured out a way to get the Devil's Cut, that is the alcohol that has been soaked up by the wooden barrels in which it's aged, back out of the wood.  I was intrigued and I do enjoy my bourbon from time to time, so I thought I'd buy a round for myself and my two friends, Mitch and Jerry.

At this point Mitch tells me he's ok with beer, but with liquor he sorta has trouble 'pacing himself.'  I've known him a long time and knew what he was talking about, but thought to myself, "What's the harm in having one?  He can keep his pace..."  The Devil's Cut was a hit, and we decided to wrap the party up and move it to the tailgate.

At the tailgate I mix myself the old standby, Captain and Coke. (I love it so much my dogs are named Captain and Morgan...)  Mitch has himself a couple of beers (pacing and all) and Jerry, our other friend from back in the day, is enjoying his Jack Daniel's.  Around two hours before kickoff Mitch breaks out this 'great new liquor' he's found called Blackheart.  He mixes himself a drink and then mixes one for me.  I took one drink and gave it away.  It was god-awful, like someone mixed Southern Comfort with rain water from Bourbon Street the day after Mardi Gras ends.  Mitch says he likes it... Whatever, buddy.  Enjoy.

So about 30 minutes before kickoff we begin making our way to the stadium and I get separated from Mitch and Jerry.  Luckily I spot them again when I get up the ramp to our seats at the first concession stand.  In the typical "slightly tipsy, excited about an upcoming sporting event" manner I proceed to run up and give a shoulder check to Mitch.  He stumbles a bit more than I expect and when he turns around his eyes are damn near crossed.  Immediately I think "Oh hell, here we go... no more for Mitch until after the game."  So for a little damage control Mitch buys one of those big, soft pretzels to hopefully settle his stomach, and a coke.

You're doing it wrong...

We go and sit at one of the tables on the concourse, and Jerry and myself are standing on the opposite side of the table from Mitch, talking when we hear the tell-tale sounds of sputtering.  Looking around we see Mitch has 'rejected' his recently ingested pretzel all over the table.  We give the obligatory damnations and send him to the bathroom, ostensibly for the purposes of cleaning himself up and getting any more of that shit out of his system before we go to our seats.

He comes back a few minutes later and appears none the worse for wear, but definitely not any better, either.  We proceed into the stands to find a good spot to watch the game.  As an aside, our seats suck but that is our own fault for missing the season ticket deadline a few years ago.  As a result we are shoved in the very southernmost section on the east side, basically looking at the side/back of the jumbotron.  For that reason we tend to 'squat' in other seats.

Before you get all uppity about our squatting, know this.  We look for open seats, and when we find them we ask the people sitting there if anyone is sitting in them.  If they say no, I explain how our seats suck but if the ticket holders come along we will gladly move, we just want a better view, no harm no foul.  Never had a problem before.

Anyway, we find a great spot, three wide and nobody sitting in front of us (thank god for THAT).  The crowd noise is pretty loud, as are the songs and effects coming from the speakers, and of course the cowbells.  Mitch sits between Jerry and myself and immediately puts on his hat and sunglasses, and props his head up in his hands.

Kickoff ensues, and I notice Mitch has slumped a little more, and has now folded his arms across his knees and has his head down resting on his arms.  As there wasn't really a lot anyone could do for him I just let him be, figuring the worst was behind us.  Oh how wrong I was...

At some point during the first quarter Mitch has now slid entirely off his seat and is sitting on the concrete, bracing his back against the seat.  He still has his head down between his knees, but has drawn his feet up a little more, getting closer and closer to the beloved-by-all-drunks fetal position.

MSU scores a touchdown, the crowd goes wild, I jump up and start ringing my cowbell.  Jerry does the same, albeit a bit slower, but then Jerry is a bit slower at just about everything.  I look down to check on Mitch and discover that he has dug really deep, and not in a good way.  He's busted out the technicolor yawn all over the concrete between his feet.  He's called Ralph and Earl, and unfortunately without the aid of the porcelain telephone.  Yes, he has jettisoned the chunky cargo... I call Jerry's attention to this.  Jerry looks at me and shrugs.  Thanks Jerry.

The clock is now ticking.  If and when this gets noticed we will need to be elsewhere or face the wrath of the stadium gestapo.  I am now entirely disregarding the football game (I was told after the fact that I didn't miss much, but still if I had my choice.....) and trying to coax Mitch into going back to the bathroom, or better yet, the tailgate.  Unfortunately for those of you who are aware of the phases of the classic drunken stupor, Mitch is now in the 'immovable' stage.  He can't focus, he can't speak, and he certainly can't stand or walk.  He also can't stop 'spommiting.' 

The legendary liquid scream...

Spommit (verb, noun) is a phrase coined for Mitch due to his volcanic nature of regurgitation.  While most people open their mouths and let it all come out like a flood, Mitch fights it as hard as he can, and in doing so he squeezes his lips shut.  So what happens when someone vommits in their mouths and forces their lips shut?  Spommit, that's what.  It's like a small-scale projectile vommit, typically with a cone-shaped dispersion pattern.  During our college days Mitch had perfected the art of grabbing a nearby (usually empty) glass or cup and discretely depositing his unwanted stomach contents in it.  Unfortunately he is now out of practice.

I'll be right back!

So Mitch is slowly releasing burst after burst of  partially-digested grossness onto the pavement and I try to recruit Jerry to help with an extraction.  Jerry, however, is more focused on Jerry's need to pee.  I implore Jerry not to go because I know the second he moves the family of four seated on the other side of him will notice Mitch's handiwork and call for help.  Jerry insists he will be fast and no one will notice, and drunk Jerry doesn't listen any better than sober Jerry, who is pretty piss-poor at it anyway.  So as Jerry is walking down the steps I look at the scoreboard and suddenly I feel like -I- might be sick, but for a very different reason.  In focusing all my efforts on minimizing the damage from Mitch I lost track of time, and Jerry has gone to take a piss with 10 seconds left in the first half.  Oh yeah, you'll be right back.

Halftime: People walking past, wrinkling their noses, me giving weak apologies and continually trying to move the immovable object while he continues to unleash the unstoppable force.  I am also frantically calling and texting Jerry for assistance... and let me just take a moment right here to give a big F U to AT&T for their continually shitty service on game days.  Anyway, as the teams run on to the field to start the second half I see two uniformed police officers round the corner at the bottom of the steps and the dad from the family of four to our right points out Mitch.  In the words of some Anheuser Busch ad exec, "Here we go."

The officers come up and proceed to grab Mitch by the shoulder and shake him, rather violently.  "Oh lord, don't do that!" I said, concerned they are going to make matters worse.

Old cop: Well, he ain't stayin here.
Me: I understand but I've tried moving him and he won't move.
Old cop: Oh he's gonna move whether or not he likes it.  He's being arrested for public intoxication.
Me: I understand that, but could you at least clear a path?  I don't want him "marking up" anyone on his way out.

Yeeeeaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!!!!

Old cop: *sigh* fine.

Young cop clears the row, they both put on gloves and lift Mitch by the elbows.  Luckily Mitch has ejected the majority of his ballast, and thus avoids any incidents while in motion.  As they are escorting him down the steps they are asking him a barrage of questions such as "Have you been drinking tonight?" "How much have you had to drink?" "Do you have any alcohol on you?" etc.  Mitch's answer to every question is "I'm sorry."  Now we're at the apologetic drunk phase.  I've been in full-on damage control mode since sometime in the first quarter, so I chime in with responses for him, such as "He's had a couple drinks, yeah, but I think it's that pizza.  I took a bite and spit it out, it was so nasty."  Did the cops buy this?  Probably not, but plausible deniability and all that....

As we are walking through the concourse I spot Jerry, leaned up against a pole with his phone to his ear.  We walk right in front of him, and as his semi-glazed over eyes appear to focus on Mitch and widen I'm in his face, grabbing his shoulder and saying "Dude, help."  I turn around to catch up with the cops thinking Jerry is now on board as well, which gives me a little hope.  I don't know what good Jerry could've done, but at least we'll all go down together, right?

Wrong.  We get to the elevator and while the cops are commadeering it I turn around expecting to see Jerry right there behind me.  Nope.  Nothing.  Nada.  Jerry has ditched us.  Thanks Jerry.  So I hop on the express elevator to hell and while we're riding down one of the cops asks me "Are we going to find any weapons on him?"  Now in my mind I'm thinking guns, machetes, nunchucks.  I actually laughed at the notion.  "Him? No way..."

We get down to the mobile booking station and they pat him down, pulling out his wallet, his phone, and a pocket knife.  I actually cringed because I had no idea he had it, and apologized profusely, but the cops seemed unconcerned after the litanny of apologies spewing forth from Mitch's mouth.  They also confiscate four untouched airline sized bottles of Blackheart.  During all of this Mitch is sitting indian-style on the ground, head down and swaying (and still apologizing, I guess at this point to the spirits of the Indian Burial Ground which Davis Wade Stadium is built on).

Once the officer takes Mitch's information from his license he turns to me...

Young Cop: I need your information, too.
Me: Whoa, wait... what do you need my info for?  I didn't do anything...
Young Cop: If we're gonna release him to you we need your info.
Me: If, by that, you mean I can take him away from here and neither of us is going to jail then I'm happy to give you my info.
Young Cop: Ok, so gimme your info then...

Information is given and all of Mitch's possessions (minus four airline sized bottles) are returned to him.  As I'm hauling Mitch to his feet Young Cop decides to show off for his buddies.  He puffs out his chest and turns to Mitch and declares "Now, if we catch you trying to come back into this game..."

I cut Young Cop off laughing so hard I nearly pissed myself.  While I do understand that some drunken douchebags might get kicked out and try to sneak back in, even this guy could see that Mitch, being in the state he was in, had no idea where he was or that there was even a game going on.  Young Cop deflates slightly and finishes his sentence, "...we'll arrest you for disturbing the peace and public intoxication."

With tears of laughter in my eyes at the notion of Mitch trying to pull a stunt like that I apologize for laughing and thank the officers, and we head back to the tailgate.  Once back at the tailgate I have Mitch recline on a nice, comfy patch of grass and begin to pull his shit together.(see below)

Looks comfy to me... he's fiiiiine.

Once he's settled I look around at neighboring tailgates' televisions to discover we're in overtime against LA Tech.  Whiskey.  Tango.  Foxtrot.  As if this night wasn't bad enough already, we're clawing and scraping to escape Louisianna Tech?  Luckly (and I do mean LUCKILY) we pull out the win and slowly my friends start to reappear at the tailgate.  I go to the cooler to make myself a drink and that's when I realize what went wrong.

DO NOT WANT.

Mitch bought a fifth of Blackheart.  Mitch made three drinks.  I gave the one he made me away because it tasted like SoCo poured out of a crackwhore's ass.  He drank the other two.  After three drinks the bottle was approximately 90-95% empty.  So Mitch took down almost 2/3's of a fifth of some sugary-sweet nastiness in about 45 minutes or so.  Anyway, I'm forced to relay the story of our being escorted from the stadium repeatedly as new friends appear, but that's ok because we didn't end up in jail, and really, isn't that what friends are for?


The next day when I relate this little tale to Mitch he laughs heartily at himself and thanks me profusely for keeping his ass out of jail.  I then inform him he is no longer allowed to drink Blackheart.  He has agreed to this punishment.  When I asked him why the hell he made his drinks so strong his reply was, "They just tasted so good!"  I have to wonder if he'd feel the same if he could remember the way it tasted the second time around...



Now that we have that out of the way...

MSU plays Georgia this weekend if anybody cares.  Should be a good game.  The key to the game will be turnovers.  Stay on the winning side of the turnover margin and the Western Dogs should win out.  Having Carmon back should help the offense if he can contribute without further injury. Yadda yadda yadda... it's been a busy week.

FINAL SCORE -

WILD AND WOOLLY PREDICTION -
MSU 35 - GA 21

REALISTIC PREDICTION -
MSU 14 - GA 27